Broken Chord

by Margaret Moore

  He allowed his thoughts to roam in another direction. Earlier on the day of the quarrel, Ursula had been to the Rossi farmhouse. Whatever had happened while she was there had upset her, or perhaps she’d met someone when she left there, someone who had told her something about Guido. Who could that have been? According to Piero, Ursula had come into the house absolutely fuming and had gone straight to her room. She hadn’t come down to tea, and as soon as Guido came in, she’d immediately had a flaming row with him. She’d thrown him out and then succumbed to a migraine. Guido said she had accused him of generically flirting, but it had to be more than that. It had to have been something more serious for her to throw him out on his ear. Maybe the woman he was seeing had confronted Ursula with the truth that afternoon. Maybe that same woman had gained access to the villa and eliminated her rival.

  He picked up the phone again. “Bruno, go over to the Rossi farmhouse and interview whoever was present when Ursula went there in the afternoon. Ask if they saw anyone else around, anyone at all.” He listened briefly. “Yes, I want to find out what caused the row, or rather who caused it.”

  He put the phone down and waited for Guido. He might be a fragile flower but Jacopo Dragonetti would have no compunction in bruising his petals a bit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Bruno approached the dilapidated farmhouse. It was in bad condition; the plaster swollen and peeling, the shutters falling off the walls. The out-buildings and sheds were makeshift, cobbled together with bits of corrugated iron, old wardrobe doors and anything else that had come to hand. The smell was the rank one of the farmyard and there were many animals around to justify it. A cloud of pigeons took flight at his approach and a dog started barking angrily inside the house. In the centre of the courtyard a massive, gleaming motorbike stood glinting in the sunlight.

  He knocked on the door. It was opened by a young man with a ring at the extremity of one eyebrow, numerous strange earrings, one of which appeared to be a miniature spear. He had a ring through his lower lip and long black ringlets. “Yeah, who are you?” he asked.

  “Police. I’ve come to see…” who had he come to see? “Your father, I believe.”

  “Sorry, can’t oblige, haven’t got one.”

  “Well, then, your uncle perhaps?”

  “No, I’m a bit short on uncles too.”

  “Well, who’s the householder, is it you?”

  “No, it’s grandad, but he’s resting right now. He’s old.”

  “When will he be finished resting?”

  “No idea.”

  “You’re a very helpful young man, aren’t you. Could I ask you a few questions while I wait for him to wake up?”

  “If you must.”

  “May I come in?

  “Best not, with grandad asleep.”

  “Alright, we’ll talk here. Were you here yesterday when Ursula von Bachmann called?”

  “Yeah, I saw her. She upset grandad.”

  “Did she? How did she do that?”

  “Tried to buy him off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She wants us out and she was willing to pay but the old boy’ll never go. He loves this place.” He gestured at the house.

  Bruno, who found it most unappealing, wrinkled his nose. “So they had an argument.”

  “Well, he’s getting on and sometimes gets a bit excited. I didn’t get there till the end, so to speak, when he was threatening her with a pitchfork.” The boy burst into raucous laughing. “I think she really believed he was going to run her through.”

  “So she was frightened?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so, but I took the pitchfork off him and told her very nicely that she’d do well to go and she went.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ozzie.”

  “Come on, your full name.”

  “Claudio Osvaldo Rossi.”

  “And your grandfather’s name?”

  “Primo Rossi.”

  “Just the two of you live here?”

  “No, there’s my grandma, my mother and my aunt.”

  “Did you see anyone else hanging around here yesterday?”

  “No. No one comes here, we don’t like visitors.”

  “That bike yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It must have cost a lot of money.”

  “It did.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “I haven’t got one at the moment. I do a bit of this and a bit of that.”

  “Does your mother work?”

  “Yeah, she’s a cleaner and before you ask, so’s my aunty Laura.”

  “Signora von Bachmann was very upset when she got home, do you know why?”

  “Me! Well, I expect grandad frightened her a bit. He’s a silly old bugger.” He grinned.

  “She wasn’t frightened, she was angry. What exactly did you say to her?”

  “I told you, I said she should go home and leave us in peace.”

  “And that’s all.”

  “That’s all.” He gave Bruno a wide smile as though asking him to disprove what he’d said.

  “And you’re quite sure no one else was around.”

  “Like who?”

  “Anyone, perhaps a member of her family.”

  “No, they keep away. They try to pretend we’re not here.”

  “When do you think your grandfather will wake up?”

  “Maybe in half an hour. He needs his rest.”

  “Alright, I’ll come back. You can tell him to expect me.”

  “He’ll be really happy about that.”

  Bruno turned and looked at the place carefully. It was impossible to see past the farmyard because of the trees. No one would have been visible unless they had come into the courtyard. But someone had told Ursula something about Guido, something so terrible she’d thrown him out, and Bruno had a hunch it was this boy.

  “Come in, Signor della Rocca, please sit down.” Dragonetti stood up to receive him and indicated the chair in front of his desk.

  Guido, looking extremely bad tempered, replied, “No thank you, I prefer to stand. I’d like to know why I’ve been brought in yet again.”

  “I’d prefer you to sit and when you’ve done so, I’ll explain.”

  As soon as Guido was seated, he started in on him. “I’ve been thinking about you… a lot… and the more I think about you, the more I like you as a prime suspect.”

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “Not at all. Let me explain why. First, on the afternoon prior to her death, Ursula had a row with you and threw you out of the house…”

  “Again! I’ve already explained it was nothing, a lover’s tiff.”

  “I know what you said, but I don’t think it’s true. From what I understand this was the only row you’ve ever had with her. You weren’t the sort of couple that habitually has arguments and then makes up. Your relationship appeared to be quite solid, so much so, in fact, that you were to get married next month. Now I want to know what happened to make her so angry that she wanted to end it, and I want you to tell me.”

  “She didn’t want to end it.”

  “So you say.”

  “Look, I’ve already told you, she thought I fancied other women, no, it was worse than that, if you must know, she was quite convinced that I was screwing around, but I wasn’t. She wouldn’t listen to reason. I don’t know who put the idea into her head but someone must have. It might have been one of her lovely children because as you probably know, they weren’t overjoyed about our marriage.”

  Drago ignored his words and continued, “The second reason I like you as a prime suspect is that Ursula phoned you, a phone call which you say you ignored…”

  “I didn’t ignore it,” interrupted Guido, “I tried phoning her back and I sent her flowers the next morning.”

  “I haven’t finished. If you will allow me to continue.” Guido shrugged. “Thank you. You say you didn’t go out but I’m having the hotel’s security camera ta
pes checked as we speak, how does that make you feel?” He really hoped they had caught him on camera but Guido wouldn’t know so it was worth saying even as a bluff.

  Guido said nothing.

  “The third reason is that whoever killed Ursula didn’t break into the house. There were no signs of forced entry. You’ve got a key. You lived there. I think you left your hotel, went to the villa, opened the front door with your key and went up to talk to Ursula. The phone call had given you hope. You thought you could talk her round but you weren’t able to, so you killed her.”

  Guido gave him a hunted look. “I didn’t and you can’t prove I did.”

  “If I can prove you left the hotel then it seems quite probable that you did.”

  “I’m not saying anything else. Can I go now?”

  “Don’t leave town and don’t even think about leaving the country. I want your passport. Someone will come with you to collect it. I’ll probably want to see you again tomorrow.”

  Guido got up and flounced out of the room. Dragonetti couldn’t help thinking that he looked more like a homosexual then a gigolo. His way of walking, his petulant sulky mouth, his mannerisms, even his speech, were those of a rent boy. Still there wasn’t a lot of difference between a rent boy and a gigolo, they both sold themselves.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Isabella had been standing hesitantly in the bathroom doorway watching Teo bathe the girls. Since his mother’s death, he hardly wanted to be separated from their children and had almost taken over caring for them. She wondered if he was worried that something would happen to them. It seemed crass to interrupt this idyllic scene but she couldn’t hold back any longer. She took a deep breath and spoke. “Teo?”

  “Hmm,” he looked up from the bath where his two daughters were splashing happily. She beckoned with her hand and he followed her. “What?”

  “The police asked me if you were in bed all night.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you were, of course.”

  “Thank you, Isabella. Camilla, stop splashing your sister,” he called.

  “Teo.”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren’t, actually.”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  “No.”

  “I see. What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted you to know that I know.”

  “I didn’t do it.” He looked squarely at her.

  “I know you didn’t. I don’t think the police need to know our private business.”

  “No.”

  “I presume you have an alibi.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, there’s no need to worry, is there.”

  “No, of course not, but I’d rather not have to use it.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t see any reason why anyone should have to know, so we’ll forget it.”

  “Thank you, Isabella.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I know.”

  He bowed his head but said nothing.

  Marianna scrubbed her body over and over again while tears streamed down her face and mingled with the shower water. Her mind was teeming with a thousand emotions. Everything was going so horribly wrong. There was something that she needed to remember… something important that kept slipping away from her grasp. By the time she stepped out of the shower she accepted that the mysteriously imperative thought had escaped her yet again. It was something to do with her mother’s death, but she couldn’t bring it to the forefront of her mind, no matter how hard she tried. She’d thought it might have to do with Lapo but it couldn’t be. She’d heard him come in at four in the morning. He’d probably woken everyone up, so it wasn’t that. It was something that had happened much earlier. If only she could remember!

  She dried herself and stood in front of the mirror looking at her own perfection. What did it matter how perfect you looked when inside you were such a mess? Better to be like Lapo whose mind was as twisted as his body. You could see what he was. He had violated her body. He was so grossly evil that nothing could excuse it, not his misfortune, not their stupid thoughtless mother, not their difficult life, nothing. Nothing could justify sinking to the levels that Lapo effortlessly achieved and rarely bothered to feel concerned about. He’d apologised to her, which meant that for once even he had realised the extent of his iniquity. Iniquity; what an old-fashioned word, but a suitable one.

  She lay naked on the bed and allowed herself to sink into a lethargic state that was similar to sleep but yet was not sleep. Recently, she was spending quite a lot of time in this empty space. It was peaceful there and sometimes she tipped over into sleep and that was even better, until the nightmares woke her.

  Lapo surfed the internet voraciously, his eyes caressing images that never sated his hunger, only accentuated his need. He’d have to go out tonight and find some poor cow who’d be willing to satisfy him. He allowed himself the pleasure of considering what he would like to do. The image of Marianna flashed up before him. He banged his fist onto the desk so hard, that several objects bounced off onto the floor. Then he nursed his knuckles, rocking gently. His eyes filled with tears for the second time since his mother’s death. He asked himself if he cared that she was dead but couldn’t find an answer to his own question. Why the tears then?

  He looked into the mirror at his angelic face and realised that the tears were for him, the little boy whose own mother found him repellent, the twisted child mocked by others and given the nickname ‘poisonous dwarf’ by the kids at school, the good-natured infant who had no consciousness of ‘self’ but who had turned into a monster as a response to the harshness of life, when he was made to realise what he was. Why should he have compassion for others when he’d never received any himself? He brushed away the tears and went downstairs for a drink, the first of several.

  “Marta, they’ve gone.”

  “Thank heavens for that. They told me that cook can come back the day after tomorrow. I’ve already phoned her and Franca. The cleaner can come in then as well, so only one more day to soldier on and then things will run a bit more smoothly.”

  “What are you doing for their dinner?”

  “A rice salad with cold cuts. The children like that and anyway, no one’s very hungry.”

  “Marta, have you thought about it?”

  “Thought about what, Piero?”

  “Who did it?”

  “Of course. Ever since I saw her like that I’ve done nothing else.”

  “And who do you think it was?”

  “Not one of us, the family, I mean. It must have been someone from outside.”

  “That’s what I’d like to think, but how did they get in?”

  “I’ve thought about that too. I think Madam opened the shutters onto the balcony herself, maybe she went out for some fresh air, anyway a burglar saw how easy it would be to climb up the wisteria so he did.”

  “And a burglar just happened to be passing by on that particular evening? The only time she opened the shutters since we’ve been here, and he didn’t steal anything? Impossible.” Piero held her gaze. “Come on, it’s not very likely, is it?”

  “Maybe he got frightened after he killed her.”

  “Frightened! From what you say he didn’t mess about; he hacked her to pieces. What did he do that for?”

  “How should I know? Maybe he wasn’t a burglar, maybe he was a loony.”

  “Marta, face it, no one from outside did this. It was one of them.”

  She looked at him with swimming eyes, “Oh Piero, don’t say that. How could one of her own children do that?”

  “No, no. It wasn’t them. It was Guido.”

  “You mean, you want it to be Guido.”

  “Of course, but that’s not the reason. I was thinking about that row they had. They’d never had a cross word. So something pretty bad must have happened. I reckon he’s got another woman.”

  “He doesn’t look up to two women. I would’ve thought he’d got quite enough
on his plate trying to satisfy Madam. She always had a passionate nature.”

  “Forget all that. Think! What would have made her that furious? I’ve never heard her go that crazy.”

  “She used to argue with Carletto and throw stuff around, don’t you remember?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t like this. The rows were never serious until the Marianna episode, then she threw him out. Do you see what I mean?” Piero looked intently at her.

  “Yes, I do see. You’re saying it had to be something as bad as that for her to throw him out,” said Marta in a thoughtful tone.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. I bet you he had another woman on the side and she found out and that did it, no marriage and no easy life for poor little Guido, so he came back and got his revenge.”

  “You know I don’t like him but I just can’t see him doing it.”

  “He must have been off his head. Anyway, there’s no one else who could have done it. No one else had any reason to.” Piero paced up and down as he spoke.

  “Oh dear. Well, I suppose it would all be for the best if it was him but how are they going to prove it? No one saw him come back. We don’t even know exactly when she was killed.”

  “No, I know that.”

  They both mulled it over for a while.

  “Perhaps he’ll confess,” said Marta hopefully.

  “Perhaps.”

  “I just want it to be over.”

  “Let’s take the food up.”

  Bruno approached the farmhouse again. It was late afternoon and if anything seemed even hotter than before. The air was heavy and thick with humidity. The appalling smell seemed accentuated too. In the courtyard an ancient man dressed in rags was wheeling a wheelbarrow of stinking manure towards the compost heap which was surprisingly close to the house. He was accompanied by a large, mangy dog of indeterminate breed that bristled and barked as soon as it caught sight of Bruno. The old man halted, set the wheelbarrow down and watched as the dog ran up to Bruno and danced around him barking furiously.